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A Poetry Journal

COPYRIGHT 2005 Lummox Press

Edited by RD Armstrong & Ed Jamieson, Jr.

I was working on this issue of DUFUS when hurricane Katrina hit the Gulf Coast. As with most of the country, I found myself caught up in that tragedy, as well. Then, about a week and a half later, I found myself personally involved in a natural disaster...An electrical storm that lasted nearly 12 hours here in the L. A. basin, causing numerous blackouts and downed trees, etc. Somewhere during this storm, a surge hit my computer (it came in through the cable modem, not the power line) and fried my Mother Board and CPU!  Fortunately, I was able to save most of my files and images when the computer was repaired.  However, I lost my entire address book (some 800 names) and all my saved email files (about 1500 messages). So now I am faced with the dilemma of publishing poets without the means of contacting them, or waiting until they contact me asking when am I gonna publish their stuff (like we said we would). 

Some people have complained that DUFUS isn't coming out fast enough.  I apologize for the length of time between issues this year, but it has been an awkward year for the Lummox Press, and that has had a direct influence on DUFUS, as well.  In June, the Lummox bank account was robbed (some sort of ATM fraud) and that took some time to clear up.  Then this business with the computer occurred and it's taken me all of September and October to get back up to speed.  So please understand that I didn't mean to take so long.  After all, there never was a schedule for DUFUS.  It was meant to occur every so often...Just not quite this long between issues.

Our poetry editor, Ed Jamieson, Jr. thinks that everyone should subscribe to the Lummox Journal, our print magazine. I hate to say this but being the realist here, I know that will never happen. Still, I'd be happy if everyone who visits DUFUS would kick in a few dollars to our ongoing fund-drive. Look for the donation button (below). Ed's of the opinion that readers of poetry actually care about the editor/publishers that put these zines let's not let the secret out. Help Ed retain his innocence, send in a few bucks.

PLEASE CONTACT ME IF YOU HAVE POETRY IN THIS ISSUE (I may not have your email address)

This issue of DUFUS features a showcase of poems by Leonard J. Cirino


The Body

The body has acquired an extended life,
floating down the newly created Venetian
canals of New Orleans, almost lazy in
disposition, face up like a tourist, gaping at
the beaded verandas and abandoned terraces
of a moratorium Mardi Gras.

The missa cantata happy hour has been
suspended in the Big Easy.

The body floats past blankets strewn on
rooftops and folks shielding themselves
from the unrelenting sun with handmade
signs beseeching assistance and reprieve.

A child blowing bubblegum dips a yo-yo on
the edge of the rain gutter as the body floats
on by as if it was, well, just like any other

This body seems more overweight than
bloated, although the cracks along the
cheeks and forehead betray what used to be
thin once, a few days ago, darkened
fingertips practiced at a charcoal piano
perhaps, clenched and split-lipped like the
numerous unemployed trumpet players of
the French Quarter.

A drowned black cat joins the body, a
faithful pet, two tied hefty trash bags trailing
behind their only meager hobo possessions.

They wade in place patiently when a
helicopter hovers to throw some bottled
drinking water at a wheelchair bound elderly
woman slumped precariously over a leaning
balcony. Three of the five bottles splash
into the current, another knocks off a potted
fern recently placed on the railing, and the
last bounces into a darkened opened room
next door.

What a strange wake through the discarded
streets of a much beloved city. The body
undulates slightly from the ripples created
by distant crisscrossing swamp airboats
searching for survivors.

Here, a snag next to a light post marks a spot
for reflection. A wild-eyed man hurries
chest deep holding a rifle, a loaf of bread,
and a fifth of whiskey over his head. He
sneers at the body, a temporary perceived
threat or impediment.

Not any more, the body merely continues on
a concluding journey to redemption, a small
eddy swirls the body around slowly in a
contemplative arc, one long last sweeping
look at the unforgiving crescent fishbowl
where dreams came to fail and to die at
length, just one more story in Storyville.

A truly somber waterlogged procession
carries the body to a realized final resting
place, at the foot of a submerged exit ramp,
amidst the accumulated debris, garbage,
refuse, and stink, amongst the other lost
souls who arrived there first, to greet the
snarling feral starved dogs fighting and

Angel Perales
Culver City, CA


Two by Pris Campbell

Indian Givers

We promised the Indians tomorrow,
but their tomorrow never did come,
so, babe, I believe in today.

Today I want to sing you a song,
crush your ears with my thighs,
place your hand on my breasts
til we no longer remember the start
or the finish. I want you to come hard
and scream, tell me more than you
ever told anyone in your whole secret life
about lazy-eyed lovers and black-pupiled
women who lay in your arms, preparing
this place just for me--halleluiah!
I want you to smear Hershey kisses
all over my back, to suck my big toe and draw
my lips exactly where you want kisses, too.
I want to write you a poem about
how a frog loved a pig, laugh at the moon,
dye our hair green, tickle your fancy,
and share Peking Duck on an expensive
lace tablecloth imported from Italy.
I want to sit in the wind, pretend
that we're sails, wear our best shoes
to wade in the surf and sprawl on the sand,
watching the crabs until morning.

Then, if we're lucky, babe, and do this
just right, when we've finished today,
tomorrow will be yesterday,
slipped by with no headlines announcing.

El Culo de Bettie

juan, little bad juan,
self appointed potter
at the Greenstreet Home
for Way
ward boys, sings
while he secretly forms
the perfect clay

Todo lo que pido de ti
Es que siempre Me recuerdes *

Anatomically correct, he
kilns it, names it Bettie
after a starlet he saw
at age 8 on cable tv while
mom moaned her living
through the crisp
bedroom wall

he hides it under his bed, along
one grey sock and one blue striped
shirt he stole last week on an outing
to Joyner's Thrift Shop

sometimes he spanks it
till his hand is as red
as the clay that formed it

he sleeps, hand resting
on Bettie's sweet rump nightly,
dreams of angel-faced girls
calling him to their side, but
the pounding of boy's feet
rushing downstairs
for oatmeal too soon awakens

*All I ask is that you forever remember me

Pris Campbell


Never Say Never

The ice storm was all-consuming, young and old
Alike ripped limb from limb, dried and drained
Of all life juices, encased within icy chrysalides
Which caused each tree to sway and bow,
As if pleading for mercy

My heart responded, a kite swooping, then falling
With a thud from a wailing winter wind
And I feared, as certain as I knew the unicorn
Existed only in fantasy, that nothing of beauty
Could arise from these cold ashes of devastation

Yet from the corner of my eye shone a gem,
A sapphire sparkling in the night; turning toward the light
In awe, I saw it was not a gem at all,
But an ice-blue branch, radiant in the moonbeams
And with misty eyes, for one brief, unshakable moment,
I believed in unicorns

Monica E. Smith


Two by Peter Dolack


If there wasn't a universe
It'd be boring
Just nothing
If there wasn't a Big Bang
There wouldn't be anything to do
Just a point
Packed so tight you couldn't see
Nowhere to go
The other side of the point wouldn't be any different
Someday the Big Bang might come
That's what the physicists would say
And then it would be different
Until then you'd have to wait
If there wasn't a multiverse
There wouldn't even be a point
Waiting to explode
Or a universe
Or anything
It would be so boring
No matter
No stars
No planets
No cities


But who will weep for the dead?
The tears flow
But they are not tears of relief
Yes I know style is all
And style there was
Indifference to the lives of millions thrown away
Would be enough
But with a smile yet?
That damned optimism painted on and frozen
In place as the national cheshire cat in the dark
Far removed from the crescent moon
Sinking above the killing fields of Central America
If he had to kill those hundreds of thousands by his own hands
Instead of hiring mercenaries
Could he have kept smiling?
What an exhausting job
He would have had to start at dawn most days
Thank you for participating in America's glorious morning, senor
Now please turn your neck a little more to the right
I wonder why his public relations agents didn't think of this
Single-handedly wiping out the Communist menace
What a photo-op it would have been
Then he could have injected homosexuals with AIDS at night
Single-handedly wiping out the gay menace
Well, mommy, do I have to kill all these people? Is the help on strike?
Even if the death squads had gone on strike
He wouldn't have fired them
The tsar always said the black hundreds were fine fellows
There isn't any point in going back to the past if you aren't going to
from it

But would there be weeping if he were simply a cowboy deus ex machina?
A vision of America as a giant happy theme park
All shiny under ever sunny skies
Built on the bones of

Is the same as any product that can't be sold unless it meets a need
He told you it was good to be the bully
Being relieved of guilt is the greatest gift
He told you it was righteous to hate
No one can be wrong when waving a flag
He told you God wants you to have cheap oil
If it's in the Bible it must be true
Shut up and go shopping
It's still a program to rally around
If he had better public relations sense
Genghis Khan would have said it's morning in Mongolia
But in those days there were no euphemisms and the leader had to get his
hands dirty

War is peace
Asking for enough to feed your kids is greed
Pollution can be ended by cutting down all the trees
He believed
Just as those who weep

Peter Dolack
Brooklyn, NY


Life Is A Series Of Usually
Connected Actions And Reactions
With The Norm Being
Painful Shit Consequences.

why try to outrun


take place

stewing and cooking

waiting on death

while the temperature


Brian McGettrick

North Ireland




Working two jobs - his wife works one

and baby sits grandchildren - my neighbor

came to make a late payment

on the old car we sold last year.


I said how sorry I was to see

their name in the Divorced column

of our local paper. Noted the bright gold

of his freshly buffed wedding band.


Brow furrowed, smile sheepish

he admitted that was true, then added

they planned to live together,

go on as before. If they can.


He thinks he has cancer but won't find out.

Doesn't know if the gnawing

in his guts that feels like rats chewing

is rogue cells or simply fear.


   No insurance

   no prospects

   staggering health

   too young for Medicare


he hopes if the thing he dreads does happen

his wife will be safe.


   Most of what we have she brought

   to the marriage. I will not wipe her out.

The pain etched on his face

has little to do with illness.

This man of honor looks straight in my eyes,

watches my reaction.


I'm the one hanging my head

over this wealthy land of ours

where even babies scream for more toys -

and get them - yet lovers divorce

to protect each other.


Patricia Wellingham-Jones

Tehama, CA

Published in Rattlesnake Review, 2005




The Moment


I want peace, and peace of mind.

I want sex with wild and insane prostitutes.

I want to ride a 1000 cc motorcycle into a freeway abutment

At 140 MPH.


I want peace, and peace on earth.

I want to party with dangerous Goth girls who snort heroin and

Will suck me dry and lead me down the river Styx.

I want a cave in the Himalayas, I want to purify my soul,

Learn to levitate, and obtain the eyes of the Christ.


But today, I'm filling out insurance forms and working on my taxes.

I come down the stairs from my office above the garage.

It's the end of March, but it feels like mid-summer.

My cream mackerel tabby is stretched out sunning himself on the driveway.


He speaks.  I speak.  I kneel down and pet him. 

His fur is magnificent in the bright mid-day sun -

reds and gold and large patches of pure white.


He rolls over and wriggles in ecstasy as I stroke his belly.

Maybe this moment is enough.  For the moment.


Michael D. Meloan

Los Angeles, CA





this is just the admirable thing
you want so everything wears down
and out you could never be ingrate to such an extent
not worried if the light comes up too green
before the slice of tangerine
on the desert

and there you are city hall the walks
the place you knew
shall we have the police surround it
to protect it from developers
it's the negative to their positive
or rather it's raw exposed stuff
they want to develop it

and here comes the expert
the learned and trained
he quickly spies a flock of them
sweeping them together
for the cost/benefit analysis

and here's the townsman with a gownsman
walking arm in arm
to keep from scratching each other's itch

the eye of the vestryman
is on the girl who casts a wry look on the
subtle appreciator
it is an old tome
but not to her
say rather the little place
of her upbringing


Christopher Mulroony

Los Angeles, CA



Dear Editor

My daughter has a cat
who crams mauled mice
under her covers
Proud gifts he grants
Propelled by primal hunger
and trust in lap pat approval
I'm like that cat
When I lay words
at your feet
Literary allegories
of life midway mangled
Laid bare and bloody
Except I languish
in possible pain
of landing in the alley
Rejected present returned


Ellaraine Lockie

Sunnyvale, CA




Dog Lawn Ornament

he grows
into the lawn. 


Chris Sumberg
Oak Ridge, TN




The Buddhist measures
the cat with a measuring
tape as she lies in my lap,
a last embrace not curled up
like the metaphor in the
maiden's lap by a fire but
cold in the dark in the
middle of the night in the
middle of my life, stiff
stretched out as if reaching
for God just before he came
to take her leaving only
this body, small and dark
and not my cat at all too big
for the hole that is too small
for her. The Buddhist shakes
his head measures twice
digs once. 


Carlye Archibeque

Mar Vista, CA


I Don't Know Where You Are

I watched them

tearing down

the house today

the house where you

used to live but

I can still see

us in there

our parents sitting

around the kitchen

table on saturday

night rolling dice

while playing marbles

and we're up in

your room playing

games of our own

calling the operator

on the phone and

telling her how much

we love her and

we talk about

our dreams hoping

if we share them

with each other

we can make them

more real and now

I don't know

where you are but

I'm still here

wishing I were

somewhere else


James Babbs
Stanford, IL




Of what use, but

If a beautiful flower

Does not possess

The element of fragrance.


View a lofted lotus

How delightful,

Attractive it looks

Even in a filthy pond.


Observe a honeybee

Which only collect honey

Without causing damage

To the beautiful flowers.


Likewise, should mind

Delight like a lotus

Though surrounded

By insatiable thoughts.


Gathering love thoughts

Reflecting sweet views

The positive feelings

Hid in every heart

Beautiful and bountiful,

Should evolve out

     To script a fruitful future


Ashok Chakravarthy






geometry lesson


the shortest distance

between two points

is a straight line

but only on a flat surface


in the three-dimensional world

plane routes arch in curved lines -

Tokyo flies to Anchorage over the Pole


the distance between you and me

can't be traveled in a straight line -

or I would speed directly to you


in our solid geometry

bilaterally symmetrical shapes

obstruct the way -

the straight line is a forbidden route


my desire is an arrow

whistling into infinity

you instruct me to collapse its trajectory

into a dot - or less


I survive your geometry lesson

by tracing the lines of my fantasy

through imaginary time



Leslie Cohen



Two by Ray Succre 

Held at the Bridge

Hours ago, he was ink,
middleman, broker,
the ice in the tumbler
of other men's thoughts.

He came late to the social,
had no drinks, bantered, mingled,
worked group to group to make
his sticks fling farthest.  He was
all business among the pleasure,
unfashionably dull, missing the point,
and he expelled his advertisements
in handout cards and badly overdone


The waif of the party
ignored him.


Bartering Petals

Grandmother hunting
brochures for every thing -

Have you ever known thrift
to carry admirable lives
through any of our times but
the desperate ones?

Have you ever known lavishness
to peek out your heart
any more so than a single, small

kiss or kind word?

You and the sales collect.

Of all the things I carry or
throw off, it's money,
you know, that
light spark perch of a bird
that has always weighed most. 


Ray Succre
Coos Bay, OR 


Martina Wrote to Tell Me

Martina wrote to tell me
She still doesn't miss me,
That since she left me
Neither Hell or Oregon is
Working out too well for her...
She says that her new boyfriend
Says that antidepressants may
Mess up her South Beach Diet and
Wondered if I had heard that...

Jesus H Christmas Club
Jumping off the cross on a pogo stick....
I'm sitting here, having lost 70 pounds
The hard way and wondering

Where I'm gonna get heroin On a holiday weekend
and Jameson's
With no money...
Oh, and lessee:
There's a war goin down out there...
People getting abducted,
Acid-influcted, Mustered, Unfilibustered
Overlusted and Mostly disgusted........
And there
Are actually burning questions like that one
Banging around out there?
Great Gosh A Mighty......

Martina wrote to tell me
She still doesn't miss me.....


Hank Beukema

Pomona, NY




Liquid Nitrogen

We used to play
"liquid nitrogen"
behind the empty crates my dad left behind on deliveries and
Fran always cheated,
claimed he had some source of heat deep inside his
belly and
when we called him out
he tried to prove it -
growling like a mother grizzly
he'd seen on the nature channel.
We laughed at him, and he just ran away saying,
"in real life, you would've been scared!" 


Zach McNaughton
Toledo OH


T is for Train


You can train a seal to balance a ball.

You can train a chimp to ride a rocket,

or train a mouse to ride in your pocket,

or train a horse to jump over a wall.

You can train a dog to sit up and beg,

or train a porpoise to leap for a fish.

You can train a cat to sit in a dish,

or train a bear to dance on its hind legs.


But you can't train a Cheney to see beyond

the end of his Halliburton nose.

You can't train a Powell to feel your pain.

You can't train a Rumsfeld to wave a wand

and make himself disappear.  And Lord knows,

you can't train a Bush; it's got no brain.


(26 Letters, 26 Poets

April 28th, 2004

50th Anniversary

Rosenbach Museum)



W. D. Ehrhart

Philadelphia, PA





Two by Virginia E. Cubillan 

How soft this pillow

How soft this pillow in my new bed
as I lay resting,
hearing, and watching.
How distant peace becomes when
being out of the hospital
for the first day.

A scream from one corner,
some whispers from another.
The chilly wind, the instruments
and its misdemeanors.
The nauseating smell of my breath,
the tight knot in my tie,
the numbness in my hands and
yet, able to fake a smile.

A raindrop I thought had
fallen on my cheek,
but it was the cold tear from a
blonde sobbing by my side.
and then a human curtain approached
me, blocking candlelight.

With my parents tonight
I wish I could talk
about my friends, my secret girlfriend,
the cigarettes...
just to let them know.
About the addiction I had
in College,
my desire to be an artist, not a lawyer
- or whatever they wanted -
and my dream of someday
becoming a good father.

At least my pillow is soft.

A crowd approaches me
and a cold silence seals their mouths.
They eyes that once stared at me
now see me as if
I were not there anymore.

How soft this pillow inside this coffin
as I lay resting,
hearing, and watching.



The 6" Pleaser stilettos
Stroll every night amongst
Neon lights and Marlboros.
On countless nights they cruise
From the East Side to the West Side
And caress silky steering wheels
Spinning around unfulfilled fantasies.
They do laps around the Big Apple
And compete with cheap imitations by
Stuart Weitzman and Casadei.
They witness night dying by
The dagger of sunlight as it
Opens the wound of another day.


Virginia E. Cubillan


& death 

had a way

of speaking

in tongues

down by the

river where the

black horse

drowned &

jerry sd

one minute

his old man

was talking

abt hank

aaron &

the next he

was blowing

his brains

all over

the wall w/

his lucky 32

jerry never


when he sd

it looked like

white boogers

pimpling the

blood & we

laughed when

the hooker

kept hanging

her head out

of the 2nd

floor window

of the clifton

hotel yelling

2 bucks to

see the wood

chuck boys &

the horse doc

tor who used

to sit on a

wooden chair

outside his

office next

to raineys

cafe liked to

scare us by

saying he'd

seen death

ride in on a

big palomino

& kenny who

never showed

any fear sd

well wd you

& death like

to suck my

dick & when

i traded the

railroad badge

my old man

kept in his

brown suit

coat pocket

for a big


he went crazy

when he

cdn't find it

& sailed an

ashtray in the

shape of wyo

ming off

the beaten

up dresser

sd it was

the only

thing he had

that belonged

to his father

that his

history was

lost in the

soot of

the railroad

wind which

brought the

rotting smell

of shit meat

& rags on

fire & my

old man wd

sit in the

dark drinking

calvert out

of a cracked

water glass

& say i'm not

afraid to die

but i've seen

death taking a

piss in the

toilet & he's

in there now

all bone white

just waiting

for me &

when i went

to shoot ray's

22 down by

the stockpens

i saw a guy

trying to  stick

a gray pony

w/a long ice

pick & he

& the nag

went down

in a tangle

& he ended up

w/the pick in

his leg & the

old railroad

cop called

jake brushed

a fleck of dirt

off the pistol

butt stuck in

belt & sd boys

you know it's

bad luck to

play around

this river it's

the drowning

water &

death speaks

in tongues


Todd Moore

Albuquerque, NM




Where Dead People Go

there must be places in

the world where dead people go

where nobody knows them

nobody ever thinks of

them as being dead

instead they're seen as

strangers shuffling their way

through the uneven streets

strangers occupying unknown

houses who never attend

any neighborhood meetings

boring cocktail parties

or backyard barbecues


James Babbs

Stanford, IL




Smooth Forehead, Thick Hair

In a conversation with a dead man's boots.

Seducing all loose help. Lavender that believes
it's invisible. Feathers or paper wings. A sudden
typhoon of parrots. Binoculars on a string around
your neck. Imitating a bird-call. The truth of
odor. "Does your bird ever stop singing", I ask,
already knowing the answer. A meadow cow dung
prefers. "Only when I cross my legs", she replies,
sitting in what any other woman would consider
a tortured configuration. The plain brown wrapping
of a bird-watcher's book. A belly worth it. The
cold required to be an icebox...

baby rattle or talcum powder...
coiled cobra or bed spring.

Noticing how sunlight streams through the bubbled
window panes.

More plain brown wrapping use to disguise.

A pale green against a murky blue.

Everybody agrees but the gun...

precisely, nods the stagecoach!


Maurice Oliver
Portland, OR




Old Love Letters


The words are there from

Another life


When your haircut was different

And different friends stood beside you


Old attitudes Old gossip

Some of the same concerns

And yet


Those clothes don't fit



The memories are salted stones

In well worn pockets


The letters are part of the life

You forgot to bury


The goodbyes

You forgot to keep


Mike James

Pittsburgh PA

Frankie's War

Frankie was buying drinks for the bar
When I first met him
He was already drunk but the bartender
Wanted him to stay a while longer
To get the most out of his generosity

Let me buy you a beer sir
He says to me
Then I want to tell you a little story

Goddamn it
I was a fuckin' ace
And I broke formation to
Save a bomber pilot'

Frankie repeats this story
Over and over
Stuck on the phrase
I broke formation
Like an old record or an old drunk
Sometimes gets stuck

At first he tells me as if I'm an officer
At his Court Marshall

He's apologetic

I broke formation
I broke formation
I'm sorry
I broke formation
I couldn't let him die alone
I dropped down from 37,000 feet
He said he was in trouble
And I knew I had to try
I broke formation
Did I mention how much I
Liked flying my F-14?

I loved it
I thought I was the best guy
In the air
I was meant to fly
But then I broke formation
To save his sorry ass

And Jesus you were
Before I even got there
You were dead
Before I could save you
But I couldn't let you die alone

I can't leave you alone
Now (still)
You bastard!
I broke formation for you
I put my ass on the line for YOU!
And you died
You were dead when I pulled out of
My 37,000 foot drop
You were dead before I pulled out
For you
God damn you!
I put my whole career on
The line for you
And I had nothing to show for my
When I pulled out
Nothing at all

Years later and
I'm still fighting the guilt
For what I did
I say it's for killing gooks
But really
It's for failing to rescue you
I wanted to save you
To swoop down from on high
And pluck you out of harms way
But I couldn't do that
I couldn't do that

I couldn't do that
I broke formation
I disobeyed orders

Sure I got the medal of honor
But I couldn't fly anymore

I bombed the hell out of
Hanoi and North Vietnam
I shot the hell out of their MIGs
And sent many of them spiraling down
To some ignoble death but

I couldn't get past that day
Officer I wanted the VC to die
No questions asked
But I couldn't get past that
Horrific moment
Please god let them all just die

I don't care what my part is
Or where I have to draw the line in the sand!
Just let me get through this

And our wing (starboard) was shot to hell
We had nothing to comfort or ease our landing
I said to my pilot Mark
We have to pull our chutes and
Let the chips fall where they may

And he said
Fuck that
That's nothing
We're going to land on the Kitty Hawk
Even if we have to flap our arms
To make it happen
And we did it
We did the impossible sir
We came in at two hundred knots
The landing almost killed us
The captain was so angry
I thought he was going to
Kill us
Everyone was trying to kill us
We weren't having a very good day

I broke formation
I broke formation

The tears are running down Frankie's cheeks now
He's worked himself into a confessional frenzy
The bartender is looking askance at us
I make the sign of the phone to her
Hoping she'll call a cab
Instead she brings the bill
Pushing it cautiously towards us
As if it might explode

Frankie pulls out a handful of bills
There's maybe three or four hundred bucks
Laying on the bar
He says please help me sir
Giving me a pleading look that says
I was there for you once
Won't you be there for me now?

I know he now thinks I'm the dead pilot
Sure I say and place a C note on the bill
Here I say as I hand him his money
Put this away before someone gets an idea
Thank you sir you know you're all right

Then Frankie leans in close and looks me
In the eye
Can you forgive me for what I done?
His hand trembles
Threatening to spill his last drink
In this bar
Frankie is begging the dead pilot
For absolution
Sure I say
Sure I forgive you
You tried your best but it wasn't meant to be
Sure Frankie sure

As I'm walking him towards the door
And the waiting cab
I think about the true horrors of war
How this man is still trapped
In the cockpit of a shot-to-hell F-14
Scared shitless knowing he's cocked up
His naval career and then some
Wondering how they'll get home
And what will be waiting for them
When/if they land

Frankie carries the ghosts of that mission
With him for all time
There is no escape for him
No where to hide
Not even at the bottom of a Continental
Maybe even death can't take the sting away
Maybe this is what haunts Frankie
That the plaintive voice of that dying pilot
Will crackle in his ear for ever and ever

I wonder if this is the true cost of war
We ask so much of those who fight
For us even if they are only acting as agents
For our government
As long as we pay for these 'adventures'
And as long as we elect those who
Will go along with these adventures
We will be complicit
Like Pilot
Unable to wash the
Blood from our hands or
The guilt from our conscience

Isn't it about time
That we all
Broke formation

RD Armstrong



The deeper I penetrate into the word jungle DUFUS the more satisfied I become!  All That HitchHikin, Sparling nails that road many of us have traveled.. I hate to single out anyone for fear of slighting another. I'll just say I feel kinship with all these poets/writers and am humbled to be included with people I've respected for a very long time. And RAINDOG your editing (i.e., positioning) flows and ebbs like a wild river. Your piece, the opening salvo, sets the tone, pace and sure-footedness you continue to exhibit!  YUHAH!!! -- G. H. Hill


Red Cross

Eskimo Pie Girl

Gotta Gripe? Send it here

Henry Denander

Cahuenga Press

Spent Meat

Poetic Diversity

2 River View

Half Drunk Muse

Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry

Charles Ries

M. Shanna Moore

AA Independent Press Guide

Jim Coke Photography

Gerry Locklin

Christopher Mulrooney

Scott Wannberg

Other Lummox Poets

Cesar Chavez Tribute

The San Pedro Poems by RD Armstrong






DUFUS #8.1

DUFUS #8.2





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A Seasonal Haiku by Rebecca Morrison


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POESY Magazine

The Temple Bookstore

The Artwork of Dee Rimbaud

ROADKILL by RD Armstrong

Remark Ezine

Abalone Moon Ezine

Zygote in my coffee Ezine

Lily Lit Review

The Chiron Review

Open Wide Magazine

This site updated Dec. 2005

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